


in silence

by theMightyPen



Series: nothing else but the other [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Pining, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 05:01:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17933342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theMightyPen/pseuds/theMightyPen
Summary: A discussion of the true meaning of a word has rather unforeseen consequences.Or, Boromir and Theodred, and a moment of revelation.





	in silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The Summer Sword (Erranruin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Erranruin/gifts).



> Title taken from the incomparable Song of Achilles, "..and I thought of how many nights I had lain awake loving him in silence.”
> 
> (Also from a prompt on tumblr: "We're designed to be disposable.")

* * *

 

_Dol Amroth, April, T.A. 3004_

The far-off roar of waves crashing on the shore is a common enough sound in his uncle’s keep. Dol Amroth is, perhaps, one of the prettiest cities in Gondor, and it is no hardship to be here as a small respite from the constant drag of war.

The familiar sound is made sweeter when accompanied by an even dearer one; the echoes of his youngest cousins’ laughter can be heard even above the waves. It pulls him from the hall and out into one Dol Amroth’s famed gardens, searching for the source of the merriment.

And it would seem he is not the only one. Theodred is there too, looking down to one of the lower terraces. He has, fortuitously, been sent to Dol Amroth for some sort of diplomatic mission by his father just in time for the mildness of spring. The sight of him--tall, broad-shouldered, sturdy and fair-haired as ever--sends a ridiculous pang through him, much as he tries to suppress it. Valar knows he _should_ not feel this way--that is an impossible, useless thing, whatever the emotion is that rises in his chest whenever the Crown Prince of Rohan is near.

But it has been thus for years now, nearly since the first time they’d met, and Boromir is sick to death of trying to pretend otherwise. He may never act on it, but he can at least acknowledge it--this….this affection.

“What mischief are they up to now?” He asks, so as not to startle him by simply appearing at his side. He learned to avoid _that_ particular misstep after walking into Theodred’s tent unannounced after a battle, and had received a dagger to his throat for his trouble.

Theodred turns his head with a smile.

Boromir resolutely does _not_ try to commit the curve of it to memory.

“I believe Lothiriel put sand in Amrothos’s boots,” answers Theodred, “ _again_.”

Chuckling despite the earlier melancholy of his thoughts, Boromir steps up beside him to better take in the ongoing scene. Lothiriel, five and clever and entirely too much trouble for her small frame, is perched on Erchirion’s shoulders as Amrothos throws shells at both of them. All are laughing, despite the trail of sand that follows Amrothos’s weaving path throughout the gardens.

“If your cousins are half as much trouble as mine, I worry for the continued well-being of our respective countries,” Boromir says.

Theodred laughs, rubbing his chin. “Bema help us all should they ever meet.”

They stand in companionable silence, watching until the siblings grow tired of shell-throwing, finally settling down in the gardens for more subdued activities.

“It is good to see them, like this,” Theodred says abruptly.

“Sand-covered?”

He pulls a face, making Boromir laugh. But all too quickly his expression turns serious. “No. Happy. Innocent. As...as children.”

Boromir frowns. Theodred’s own cousins have not been as fortunate as the House of Dol Amroth. Orphaned at a young age and moved to Theoden King’s household shortly after, their lives have been tumultuous thus far. Theodred has told him as much, of young Eomer’s fierce, burning anger, so much like his father’s infamous temper, and little Eowyn’s shocking coldness, when truly upset. His cousins, on the other hand, have both parents and each other, in their haven on the coast.

Though it so easily could change. War has made so much uncertain. Life. Love. Peace.

“It is,” he agrees. “I admit, it has become far too easy of late to forget that we are fighting for more than our immediate survival and that of our men. Seeing them, happy, safe...it is a good reminder that I--that we---” Boromir pauses, suddenly unwilling to continue.

Theodred blinks, a tinge of confusion on his face. “What do you mean, Boromir?”

Boromir swallows. It has always been easy, so easy, _too_ easy, to voice his deepest, most innermost thoughts with Theodred. Commanders nearly their entire lives, leaders to their people, beloved by their fathers, with the weight of expectation and duty on their shoulders...there are very few people that understand him, in the way that Theodred of Rohan does.

“I do sometimes wonder, in darker times, if we...if we were designed to be disposable. The War will go on, even if we should not, and others will come to Gondor and Rohan’s defense.”

Theodred’s expression has morphed from confusion into out-right shock. Boromir cannot blame him; these are not his happiest thoughts, nor ones of which he is proud.

“Disposable?” Theodred echoes. “How--”

“I know it is wrong,” he interrupts. “That we are more than figureheads and commanders and captains. That our lives matter to our families, to our friends--”

Theodred’s hands are suddenly on his shoulders, cutting across his speech, and the look on his face is as fierce any Boromir has ever seen him wear in the midst of a battle.

“You are not, and could never be, disposable,” he all but hisses, “by Bema, Boromir, if I _ever_ hear you say something like that again--how could you even think--”  

It is Boromir’s turn to be shocked. The depth of emotion on Theodred’s face, the sheer anger--

No. Not anger, but _fear_. But what has he to fear?

“I--I am sorry,” he manages.

“How can you--you are _irreplaceable_ . To your country, to your family, to _me_!”

The blood rushing in Boromir’s ears easily drowns out the sound of the sea. Theodred’s words are very plain, as is the custom of his people, but he cannot--there has to be some other meaning, some other explanation than the desperate, unspoken things he has longed for--

His hands move of their own accord, framing Theodred’s face. And then he is kissing him before he can think better of it, helpless not to finally, finally acknowledge this thing, this affection, this--

Theodred’s hands tighten on his shoulders and Boromir could weep at the sensation. He has not imagined it--he has not been alone in this, they _still_ understand each other--

But then Theodred is pulling back with a breathless sort of laugh and ice slides into his stomach. Oh, Valar, not mockery, not _pity_ \--he could stomach anger, or disgust, but not the shame that would come with being pitied!

“This is not at all how I imagined my day going,” he says, and Boromir’s heart takes up residence somewhere at the bottom of his boots.

“I am sorry,” he says again, feeling wretched and embarrassed. Theodred will not tell anyone about this--he has too much honor--but there is no taking back the action, nor what it meant. “I should not have--”

And then Theodred is kissing him again, effectively silencing him before he can splutter out an attempt at an apology.

“I meant,” he says, when they’ve managed to _stop_ kissing long enough to draw breath, “I never expected to go from wanting to strangle you to kissing you in the span of seconds. More fool me, I suppose.”

Boromir thinks he manages to make some sort of punched out noise resembling an _oh_ , but he could not be sure. Between the roar of the sea and his own heart, it is difficult to hear anything else.

Theodred’s elated expression dims a little as the silence lingers. “That is--do I owe you an apology, then? If I have--if I have acted out of turn--”

Boromir groans a laugh, feeling more light-hearted than he has in years. “I believe I was the one who ah. Acted.”

Theodred’s smile is as swift and bright as a sunrise. “So you did. And you should not be sorry for it. Though if you ever refer to yourself as ‘disposable’ ever again, I will make you sorry for other reasons.”

“I do not doubt it,” Boromir says.

Eventually, sense and the warmth of the sun reminds them to untangle their limbs from each other’s, though it is too late to have spared Theodred’s pale skin from the indignity of a sunburn.

Something Boromir finds himself very grateful for, when his uncle remarks on the pinkness of their guest’s face at dinner.

“I do not mind,” Theodred assures Imrahil, "for it was earned in an enjoyable way.”

Suddenly, Boromir finds himself better understanding the sensation of wanting to strangle someone and kiss them, all at once.  He suspects he will become very, very well-acquainted with the feeling.

* * *

 


End file.
